s. He
was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of
spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he
was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His
claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is
unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not
written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the
greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his
characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian
ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and
successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An
excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy,
was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.

JEANIE MORRISON.[48]

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way,
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears;
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears;
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson--but
My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The schule then skailt at noon)
When we ran aff to speel the braes--
The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by